


Only in Existing, Do I Become Eternal

by deathbychai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, i mean wat? I'm not combining AU universes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbychai/pseuds/deathbychai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a grad student in the philosophy department at UC Berkeley who works at a cafe on the southside of campus called "The Eastern Side." Yeah don't ask him. He didn't come up with the name. His boss, Anna Milton, was the one determined to have a tribute to her namesake's greatest œuvre. His days are lost in a haze of relentlessly mediocre essays, trying to write his thesis, and working to subsidize his addiction to vinyl records and first edition books.</p><p>At least, they were until a certain Dean Winchester happened to walk into his cafe, and somehow became the instant that he redefined all other events in his life around....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel is having a particularly long day. Normally his job at the cafe is laid back enough to allow him time to sneak in some paper grading between making drinks. However, today is just an endless flood of tired caffeine zombies trudging in the door. It's hardly a surprise given that finals week is looming on the horizon, but it's still an unwelcome development in his day.

With a long sigh, Castiel runs over his mental to-do list while pouring milk into the mug and making the signature leaf in the foam with an absent minded flick of his wrist. He has about twenty papers to finish reading. He's got to hunt down that reference book on Heidegerrean philosophy in the main stacks that some undeserving undergrad had checked out. And then, he has elaborate plans to stare at the blinking cursor in his thesis and longingly wish that the third section would write itself. Not to mention that the death knoll of his quals keep sneaking closer and closer...

A tap on his shoulder interrupts his thoughts. 

"Hey Castiel, it looks like the afternoon rush has died down a bit. I've got to run inventory on the storage room. Will you be ok by yourself for thirty minutes?"

"I can do that."

"Great. Thanks Castiel. If you need me, I've got my phone on me. Reception is a bit patchy but just shoot me a text. I'll try to be as fast as I can."

Castiel nods his assent. Throwing a grateful look in his direction, Anna turns around and heads down the stairs into the musty storage room.

Castiel makes several more drinks before the crowd seemed to die down a bit. Around five, Castiel wearily plops down on the stool behind the counter and stares at the essay on the top of the pile. He digs around in his bag for a red pen, sticks the cap in his mouth, and poises his pen to start writing revisions. Just as he's about to write down his suggestion a reread of the beginning of chapter three because of the egregious use of quotes out of context, he hears the bell on the front door chime.

With a less than pleased expression, Castiel gazes up to catch a jaw line of surprisingly attractive stubble and continues his upward gaze to see lips quirked in a smile and kind green eyes. He quickly schools his expression into something a few shades more welcoming and moves behind the register.

"Welcome to the Eastern Side. What can I get you?"

"Hey. Sorry to interrupt..." he says as he makes a vague gesture at the hefty stack of essays.

"It is perfectly all right. I am on the clock right now anyways. Just multitasking since there never seem to be enough hours in the day."

A warm chuckle meets Castiel's response.

"I hear you there. Hey listen, I know it’s after Thanksgiving, and I don’t see it on your menu...but I am totally craving a pumpkin latte. Any chance that I could persuade you to make one?"

"Well given that it is December, we’re normally on to peppermint lattes..." Castiel finds himself immediately on the receiving end of a look with sad puppy dog eyes and revises his statement, "But I suppose I can find it in my heart to have a final hurrah for the pumpkin latte. That’ll be three fifty. For here?"

"Thanks man. Appreciate it. Yeah for here. Got a couple hours to kill."

"No studying to do?"

"Oh, I’m not a student. Always been better at using my hands."

"Ah I see."

A short lull follows at they stare at each other. Castiel starts up the conversation again.

"Do you care about what type of milk I use? Is regular okay?"

"Yeah sounds great."

They lapse into quiet as Castiel turns to open the fridge. He pulls out the milk and a can of pumpkin purée. Turning his back, he assembles the spices on the counter. Castiel scoops a quarter cup of puree into the pitcher, adds a teaspoon of nutmeg and one of cinnamon, a splash of vanilla, a tablespoon of brown sugar, and then pours in a cup of milk. 

Grabbing the whisk, he quickly beats the mixture together and then places the steam wand diagonally just below the surface. The machine lets out a faint sucking sound as it cheerfully froths the milk to an even 140 degrees. He pulls the pitcher off the machine and gives the nozzle a quick wipe.

Pulling off a mound of ground espresso from the machine, Castiel tamps the grounds into a flat surface with practiced ease before slotting it neatly into the machine. He slides the shot glass under the dispenser, flips the switch, and pulls the espresso for an even eighteen seconds. Then, Castiel pours the espresso shot into the cup and grabs a spoon from the rack. Using the spoon to guide the flow of the foam, he adds the steamed milk and finishes it off in the characteristic leaf of their cafe. Pulling out a saucer, he sets the cup neatly on top and hands it over the counter.

"Wow thanks man. Didn't realize it was going to be a production."

A half shoulder shrug. 

"It was not a great inconvenience. We normally have pre-made pumpkin milk during the season, which makes the whole process a lot faster."

"Well I appreciate it. It smells great."

Castiel tries his best not to be distracted as the guy purses his lips to blow at the latte to cool it down. The guy takes a cautious sip to gauge the temperature before immediately following with a larger swallow. Watching the strangely seductive bob of his Adam's apple, Castiel fiddles a thread working its way loose at the hem of his shirt.

"Wow. This is...," he pauses to sip at his beverage, "Really fucking good."

A broad smile that makes Castiel's knees feel a little weak.

"Thanks man. I'll definitely remember to come back to this place."

"Sure," Castiel responds weakly.

The guy's face miraculously manages to stretch into a wider smile at Castiel before he goes to sit down on the armchair by the fireplace. Putting the cup temporarily on the table, he pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged before reclaiming his latte and sipping with great contentment.

Right. Staring at people is not socially appropriate. Castiel chastises himself. The essays. Better get back to them. They certainly aren't going to magically revise themselves. Shaking himself out of his haze, he picks up the pen from where it laid and starts reading the paper again. He taps the pen absent-mindedly against his leg and twirls it in his hand as he reads, stopping to underline a phrase here and there or to write a comment. 

If he's perfectly honest with himself, Castiel might be guilty of looking up to where pumpkin latte guy is sitting more than a few times over the course of only one essay page. However, Castiel is perfectly content to lie to himself and pretend that as if he's making industrious progress on his stack of papers to grade. Okay, he can at least make it through another, he quickly flips to the last page to see the page count of seven and barely suppresses a groan. All right, another three pages of reading before he's going to allow himself to glance up again.

He finishes reading the essay three pages later (of course Castiel was *not* counting pages) and raises his eyes surreptitiously. Only to actually meet pumpkin latte guy returning his gaze as he quirks the left side of his mouth in that adorable half-grin again. Castiel watches as he unfolds his legs from underneath him and walks back up to the counter with his cup.

"So I finished the latte. Status report: the best fucking latte of my life."

"Good. I'm glad."

"Where should I put this?"

"Oh I'll take it."

Pumpkin latte guy shuffles his feet a bit and jams his hands into his jean pockets.

"Hey um, so I've got another hour or two to kill while my little brother meets with a professor on campus. Do you guys have a book section or anything?"

"Yeah, we do."

As pumpkin latte guy cranes his head and surveys the café, Castiel mentally kicks himself for his lack of eloquence. "There's not really anything good on the shelf. Um...how do you feel about the apocalypse?"

Pumpkin latte guy blinks owlishly at Castiel in confusion before saying, "Er. Poorly, I guess? Can't say I've given it much thought."

He casually extends his right arm to scratch absent-mindedly at the tag on his shirt and exposes a glimpse of tanned skin.

Castiel clears his throat, pointedly dragging his gaze back up, and continues, "I've, uh, actually got a book on me. It's written by these two British authors and riotously hilarious. Here, hold on one second."

He dives into his bag and retrieves the battered paperback before handing it over the counter.

"Cool. Thanks a lot man," he says, accepting the book with his left and immediately follows up with a firm handshake with his right. "Dean. Nice to meet you."

"I'm Castiel. Likewise."

Their handshake lingers for a few seconds too long, and Castiel can feel the worn calluses on Dean's palm and the firm grasp of his grip. He resists the urge to stroke his thumb along the back of Dean's hand.

The soft schnick of the door swinging open behind him catches Castiel's attention, and he breaks the handshake to turn.

"Hey Castiel. Not too crazy up here hopefully?"

"It was completely manageable."

"Great!"

Anna beams at him and then transfers her smile to Dean. "Welcome to the Eastern Side. Have you been helped? What can I get for you?"

A faint blush crosses Dean's face. "Oh I'm good actually. I just came up to return my cup."

He points at the cup sitting on the counter as if he somehow has to provide proof before stammering, "Uh yeah. So thanks, I'm good."

Dean turns and shuffles away back to the armchair without catching Castiel's gaze and sits back down.

"So I think we're good on inventory for a while. All good on scone ingredients for when Tessa comes in to bake. She always carps at me if she has to run out," Anna says as she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"It's not as if the convenience store isn't just two blocks away Shattuck. Anyways, anything you want to add to the list, Castiel?"

"No, I think that I'm good."

"Alright. You know what, since I left you alone up here for longer than I thought I would, why don't you go home early for the day? You look beat and that essay stack looks fierce."

"Oh no. I couldn't impose on you like that. I'm fine staying."

"Well you're welcome to stay here and grade here with a cup of coffee. But I insist. I'll pay you for the remaining hour and a half of your shift."

"Well...that would actually be really helpful Anael. Thank you very much."

Anna smiles fondly at the use of her full name before waving Castiel off. "No problem."

Castiel bends to grab his bag and shove the papers inside. He grabs a mug from the wall, fills it with coffee, moves through the cafe to approach where Dean's sitting. While pointing at the other armchair by the fireplace, Castiel asks, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"No problem, Cas. It's your cafe."

"It actually belongs to Anna. She's the owner." 

Dean chuckles and his eyes crinkles around the edges. "That's not actually what I meant, but yes. You can sit wherever you want."

Castiel settles in to grade papers and manages to make pretty good progress. There's something strangely comforting about sitting in Dean's presence, listening to him laugh softly as he reads the funnier parts of the book, that lulls him into a productive mindset. Before he realizes it, he's nearing the bottom of his essay stack. 

He's distracted by the soft ping of a phone that Dean fishes out of his pocket. "Oh great. Sammy's done with his meeting."

A languorous stretch, and Dean moves to get up. His finger stays in the book holding his place as he stretches it towards Castiel.

"Oh no. That's fine. Why don't you hold on to it for now? Just return it when you're done."

"Really?"

"Yeah no problem. I've read it at least four times."

"It's great. I can see why it's a favorite. I'll take extra good care of it. No dog-earing pages or anything."

Castiel ruefully glances at the book where it lies cradled in Dean's hands. "I honestly don't think that you could be any worse to it than I have been."

"Well, I'll still take good care of it. Thanks a lot, Cas. It was good to meet you."

Dean shoots Castiel an almost blindingly bright smile as he waves and heads out the door.

Castiel bends back over his papers to finish reading the last two. He studiously tries to banish thoughts of friendly green eyes, a tanned expanse of abdomen, and the perfect smile/smirk that Dean has completely mastered.

With a groan, Castiel shakes his head and decides to call it quits for now. He shevels the papers back into his bag, picks up the coffee cup, and brings it back to the counter to hand to Anna.

"Hey Anna?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you add pumpkin purée to the inventory list?"

She quirks a questioning eyebrow in his direction. "You are aware that it's December right?"

"Well, the weather still feels like autumn, and I've recently discovered my predilection for the gourd."

She shakes her head as she laughs at Castiel. "Sure okay. No problem. Consider it done."

As he swings open the café door, Castiel allows himself a large grin. Today has been a much better day than he expected when he rolled out of bed this morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section is the most G-rated thing I've ever written. I mean, you guys get a handshake and longing gazes. Don't you worry your pretty little heads, there will be smut.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel has always been a morning person. This habit is probably more borne more from his insomnia and inability to stay asleep for long periods of time than an actual love of the morning. Regardless, he's always up early every morning; he has long since given up on trying to coax his body into getting a few more hours of sleep. So now, his morning tradition is to go for a nice, long jog in his neighborhood. He always likes how cities look in the early morning hour: the grass still glistening with morning dew and his breath misting in the cold air as his sneakers pound their way through his third mile.

So when Anna calls Castiel in a panic at 6a and apologizes profusely for waking him off, he merely shakes his head and tells her not to worry. He'd already been up. The thermostat broke at the café last night, and the repair guy couldn't come in till this morning. But just her luck, the BART trains were broken, leaving her stranded in her San Francisco apartment. Please please please would Castiel mind coming in today even though it was his day off to let the repair guy in. She promises to cover a shift of his later in the week and send it reinforcements as soon as she can.

Castiel agrees. Morning shifts are perfect before seven and after nine. He likes the solitude of the café before it opens and setting everything in its own place where it belongs. Then, there's the morning rush that tend to pass in a daze of coffee, espresso shots, and lattes. Around 9a, it inevitably lulls after classes, and then it's really just him and a couple of regulars trickling in to play chess on one of the cafe tables or curl up with a book in an armchair.

However, when he gets to work and the repair guy has still not shown up by 10a, Castiel is feeling a little curl of irritation stir in his belly. He calls Anna who is righteously furious. She tells him to go ahead and throw in a free cookie or drop a buck off everyone's coffee order for the day if they're staying as an apology for how cold it was in the coffee house. Continuing, Anna vows to definitely give the repair company a piece of her mind before hanging up. (Castiel certainly doesn't envy whomever has the rapidly approaching misfortune of being on the receiving end of her wrath.) 

None of the regulars seem to mind the temperature drop too much. Castiel has a fire roaring, and the few students who have decided to stay huddle around the fireplace like a camp of evacuees in the aftermath of an apocalypse. With a rueful smile, Castiel surveys them and half expects to see fingerless gloves and oil drums to manifest at any second. 

However well his customers seem to be faring, Castiel himself minds greatly - he has always loathed the cold. Losing himself to a violent mental disemboweling of repairmen who aren't able to keep to their schedules, Castiel looks up with a scowl when the door chimes open, bringing in another gust of cold wind.

"Hey Cas. If you keep glaring at everyone who walks through this door, you're going to start losing customers." A soft chuckle accompanies a smile that reassures Cas of Dean's joking tone.

"Yeah. Well, it's been a long morning."

"Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?"

"Unless you secretly specialize in hunting down stray repairmen, I do not believe so."

Another broad grin breaks across his face as Dean grins fondly at Cas. "Well, I can't speak for my hunting skills, but I am great at fixing things. What's broken?"

"The thermostat," Castiel responds miserably as he pulls his jacket more snugly around his shoulders.

Dean shrugs as if indifferent to the temperature that Castiel protests down to every atom in his body.

"Oh. I guess it is a bit chilly in here."

"A bit?" Castiel echoes disbelievingly before breaking into more staunch protesting. "I can practically see my breath casting misty plumes as I breathe. Can you not see the impromptu nuclear fallout zone in the café where they're all huddled around the fireplace?!"

"Haha. I guess it's because I grew up in Kansas. Our winters were filled with ice storms, and we'd all grab skates, and Sammy and I would go skating over the lakes. So cold has never really bothered me - it's one of the better memories I have."

"Sounds fun. Miserably cold but fun."

"Alright mister I-can't-handle-cold. Where is your thermostat? I'll take a crack at it."

"Are you sure? You're a customer. I'd feel bad making you do work."

"Well you lent me a book that I liked so much I even finished it in record time. So uh, I think we can count as friends now, and I'm not *just* a customer." Dean walks over to behind the counter and clasps a firm hand to Castiel's shoulder. "So Cas, let me help with that thermostat."

"Oh okay. Well. It's downstairs. Um..." Castiel looks quickly around the cafe. "I guess it should be okay if I leave the front for a second."

Castiel locks up the cash register and calls out to one of the regulars to let any new customers know that he'll be back in a few seconds. He turns and beckons for Dean to follow him into the basement. After opening the door, Castiel pulls on the string for the overhead light, which flickers to life dimly above their heads as they walk down the wooden stairs.

"Man, spooky. Maybe I need to exorcise your thermostat?"

"Haha. Hilarious. If it fixes the problem, you're welcome to sacrifice any first-born sons you find. I can't stand the cold."

"Got it. Got it." Dean holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Well. Got a toolbox?"

"Yeah... Um, somewhere around here. I think there's a red toolkit on the shelf by your feet actually."

Dean bends over to look for the toolbox, and Castiel very studiously avoids to admiring his ass. He's only half successful.

As he stands up, toolbox in hand, Dean says, "Alright. Well. Looks like you've got everything in here. I'll come upstairs if I find something that I need."

"Thank you so much again, Dean. If you can't figure it out, just let me know. It's really not a big deal. The repairman should turn up sometime..."

"Hey Cas, it's really no problem man. Go back upstairs to tend your flock."

Dean makes a dismissive shooing gesture with his hands and then rolls up his sleeves. By the time Castiel has climbed up the stairs and casts a look back, Dean has started to unscrew the thermostat from the wall. Castiel deemed that Dean certainly looks like he knows what he's doing, or at least, certainly, he has more of an idea than Castiel did.

With a casual shrug that echoed Dean's earlier gesture, he returns to his spot at the register. Twenty minutes later, much to Castiel's surprise, Tessa walks in the front door. "Hey Castiel."

"Hey Tessa. I don't think I saw you on the schedule today?"

"Oh didn't you see Anna's text? She called me after you to have me come in at 11 to swap out for you. Plus she knows what a sourpuss you are when it's cold. Had to come in when the boss lady beckons."

"Okay. Well, I'll get out of your way then. The repair guy did not end up coming but a friend is downstairs trying to fix the thermostat. I'll go check in on him then."

"A friend?" One of her eyebrows inches upward.

"Yes."

Three beats of silence follows before Tessa clears her throat pointedly. "You going to elaborate? Balthasar hardly seems like the type to know how to fix a thermostat, so unless you've got another friend stashed away..."

"Tessa. I can have multiple friends."

"But you don't."

"Ok. Well now, I have two. And I'm going to make him a drink and go downstairs. End of discussion, Tessa."

"Alright, whatever you say boss."

"You know I'm not your boss Tessa."

"Whatever you say, more senior employee."

Castiel shakes his head at her teasing and moves to make a pumpkin latte for Dean. As he's about to head downstairs with the drink, Tessa stops him and asks while waggling her eyebrows at him, "Wait. Friend? or *friend*?"

"Friend."

"Well, I just watched you pour that latte in the shape of a heart."

Castiel manages to look both irritated and abashed at the same time. "I'm going downstairs now, Tessa."

Castiel is halfway down the flight when Dean turns around with a smile. "Perfect timing, Cas. It's all fixed. It'll take some time to get back up to a good temperature because the heater has got to make up for all that time it was slacking..."

"That is truly impressive, Dean. What did it need?"

"Well. I figured it was probably just dirty, so I dismantled it and cleaned it. Turned out, it also needed to be calibrated a bit, so I reset the line voltage. And now it sounds like it's working just fine."

Dean pauses and looks at Castiel, "Why are you looking at me like that? It's really not that impressive. Anyone could have done that."

"Dean, I sincerely thank you. It was certainly more than I could have done. I just came downstairs and scowled at it for a while, and I can attest to the complete lack of efficacy of that action. Anyways, I brought you a drink," Castiel hands the drink over, and Dean smiles gratefully.

"Awesome. Thanks," Dean takes a sip, and his eyes brighten by several degrees, "A pumpkin latte? But it's like mid-December now, and if it was too late last week, it's definitely too late now."

"Oh it's no problem. I remembered how much you liked it. It's on the house for fixing the thermostat. Though I'm sure when I tell Anna about your handiness, we can probably wrangle you some sort of free coffee deal for life."

They stand quietly in the basement, listening to the sound of the radiator creaking to life. Castiel stares at his feet and feels achingly conscious of his arms and how his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. Oblivious to Castiel's internal torment, Dean sips contentedly at his latte. 

Clearing his throat, Castiel starts, "So uh. Want to go get lunch with me? Unless you've already eaten. There's this great bakery that does these transcendentally good fried chicken sandwiches."

"Sounds great. But uh, aren't you working?"

"Actually, a coworker, Tessa, just replaced me, so I'm off."

Dean responds with a huge smile, "A pumpkin latte AND fried chicken sandwiches. My luck is off the charts today. Next, I'm going to find out that I'm the next Doctor Who companion."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand that reference."

"Oh man, you're in for a treat. It's a great show!"

"Sounds like fun, Dean. Also, I don't know if you're a pie or cake person..."

Dean shoots Castiel a horrified look before blurting, "As if I'm a heathen that likes cake better!"

Castiel finds himself smiling softly at Dean's dramatic response, "Well that works perfectly because they also have amazing pies. I don't know what flavor they have today, but blueberry is definitely my favorite."

"Cas, my man," Dean says as he throws an arm casually around Castiel's shoulder, "You and me are going to be inseparable. Lead the way."

They walk back up the stairs, and Castiel does a quick introduction of Dean and Tessa before whisking him out the door, all but tugging his arm in his haste to leave.

"Hungry?" Dean teases as they stroll down the street.

Castiel frowns. He had just not liked the way that Dean smiled easily at Tessa and his soft flirty laughs. He hides his petty feelings behind a weak smile. "Yeah. Starving. So if we go three blocks down this way, we can catch the bus..."

Dean halts promptly in his tracks and grabs Castiel's arm to stop him as well, "What? No. We're taking my car then. Here follow me. I'm parked this way."

They climb up the hill in comfortable silence as Dean unthinkingly jingles the keys in his hand. 

"This is her. This is baby." He smiles broadly as he points to a black Impala parked on the street.

"She's very pretty."

"Thanks. She's a genuine '67 Chevy Impala. Baby still runs like she just rolled off the assembly line yesterday."

"That's commendable, Dean."

"Thanks," Dean ducks his head in an almost shy smile as he unlocks the door to his car. 

"Oh right. I almost forgot," Dean says as he digs a book out of his back jean pocket, "Here's your book. It was great."

Castiel replies with a smile as gets into the car, "Oh good. I'm glad you liked it."

Dean blushes, almost imperceptibly, a quick flash of vermillion across his freckles. He reaches over to the glove box, opens it, and pulls out two books. "Here. These are for you."

"Comics?"

"Yeah. It's the first two books in the Sandman series by Neil Gaiman. Full of intellectual stuff like philosophy and mythology. I figured you might be interested. But comics are kind of stupid too, so don't worry about it..."

"Dean, I didn't say anything like that. I was just surprised. Thank you for bringing these for me."

Castiel lets his hand rest on Dean's while accepting the books before giving it a brief squeeze.

"I really appreciate it. I'm looking forward to reading them. I'm sure I will like them a lot."

"Okay. So, where is this bakery?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, they're going to a real bakery. It's called Bakesale Betty's (Telegraph/51st in Oakland, CA) and they really do have killer chicken sandwiches. And pie. And strawberry shortcake in the summer. Oh yes.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel does not go out frequently. Ten times out of ten, he'd rather stay at home, throw on one of his favorite vinyls, snag a book from his collection, and settle into his overstuffed armchair. 

Nine times out of ten, he's successful in having a low-key evening. As he looks ruefully around the loud bar, tonight is definitely that tenth night. After copious cajoling from Balthazar, he relented to go out tonight. He agreed partially because, over the phone, Balthazar had called him a humbug and a Christmas miser. Castiel had tried to point out that it wasn't even an accurate insult because Scrooge had said "Bah! Humbug!" as if Christmas was a fraud, but Scrooge himself wasn't the humbug. A humbug was a hoax or a trick.

Balthazar had just scoffed dismissively and countered that the actual definition of humbug was irrelevant. He hadn't seen Castiel in too long and that meant that he needed to drag his boring ass out to Palo Alto. Especially since, quote, Heaven forbid, the hippie bullshit in Berkeley might rub off on me, and I'll start eating granola and drinking PBR, end quote.

So Castiel had thrown on a pair of jeans (he had been lectured repeatedly by Balthazar that slacks were far too formal) and grabbed his overcoat as he headed out the door. He silently apologized to the million little bugs that chose to commit suicide on his windshield as he drove across the Dumbarton Bridge. 

When he arrives in front of the lazily blinking neon light, he glances down at his phone to confirm that he's in the correct location. He manages to find a parking spot a block away and slides into it with a silent prayer of gratitude to the parking deities. He taps out a quick text to Balthazar to let him know that he has arrived and steps in to the bar.

Castiel is instantly surprised by how dingy it is within the Roadhouse. There's the typical crowd of undergraduates milling near the bar, vociferously doing shots, and a slightly older crowd near the pool tables, lazily shooting colored balls around the green felt. He's surprised by the lack of pomp and circumstance; Balthazar usually prefers places where the women are dressed to the nines with fourteen dollar cocktails in hands adorned by flashy rings.

Castiel walks up to the bar and stands patiently behind a couple that are ordering their drinks. After they get their orders filled and leave, he quickly steps up into the newly empty space. The blonde bartender behind the counter bustles about on the busy Friday night and pours several more drinks before Castiel finally manages to catch her eye.

"Hey there. What can I get for you?"

Castiel opens his mouth to answer, but before he can respond, he's interrupted by a surprised voice behind him.

"Cas! What are you doing here?"

Castiel's brow wrinkles in confusion as he turnes; he doesn't know anyone in Stanford other than Balthazar. He's surprised to find Dean standing in front of him and eyes him with confusion as if he was looking at an apparition. Dean's wearing a tight black shirt, ripped jeans, and a towel casually slung over his shoulder. Wracking his mind, he remembers that Dean had mentioned something over pie about his brother studying law at Stanford.

"Um," he swallows as he tries to form coherent words, "I'm meeting someone."

As Castiel stares guilelessly at Dean, he marvels at how it's possible for his eyes to seem so green even in the dim of the bar. He sees a brief flicker of a frown on Dean's face before it smooths out into a grin. Shaking his head, Castiel assures himself that he imagined it--surely Dean wouldn't be upset at seeing him if he had gone out of his way to greet him.

"Well. Welcome to the Roadhouse," Dean gestures expansively. "I'm just about to start my shift."

"Yeah. A little late Winchester. I've been dying to get home," the blonde says from behind the bar.

"Yeah yeah. Don't get your panties in a bunch, Harvelle. I'm five minutes late. Quit your bitching. Cas, let me hop behind the counter, and I'll get you a drink. Ever had a blood and sand?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Castiel asks as he steps closer to Dean, tilting his head slightly to better hear him in the din of the bar. He is briefly mesmerized by the sight of the bob of Dean's Adam’s apple as it bobs up and back down as Dean swallows hard.

"Uh, blood and sand. It's a drink."

"Sure sounds great. I don't think I've ever had one before."

Dean returns Castiel's tentative smile with a warm smile of his own that makes Castiel's insides do cirque-du-soleil-esque swoops. "Well you know what they say, trust your bartender."

Castiel's about to open his mouth to answer in a hopefully witty rejoinder as Balthazar places a hand on his shoulder. "Hello Castiel. So nice of you to come out. It's been too long, old friend. First round is on me. And you'll have to catch me up on your thesis progress."

Castiel grimaces at Balthazar as he responds, "What progress? It's slow going, but I've found a couple of useful books that I'm hopeful will help me along with my writing. I think I'm beginning to understand more how to address the fundamental paradox and how faulty it is to use Greek philosophical principles in the modern Judeo-Christian fundamental paragon." 

"Oh good. Whose ideology are you proposing that we use going forward? Heidegger? Kierkegaard?"

"Yeah. Been talking with my advising professor. But feeling nowhere near prepared for quals in three months. How's progress going on your behalf?"

"Oh. Tu sais, la littérature française est toujours la littérature française," Balthazar says with a casual shrug and a downward quirk of his lips.

"Well. You were the one who chose to study French literature."

"Thought it'd bag me all the hot Parisienne ladies. At the same time," Balthazar jokingly waggles his eyebrows in jest to which Castiel responds with a slight grimace. He casts his eyes quickly toward Dean to see him watching, trading some quick words with the blonde bartender with a friendly hand on her shoulder.

"I don't understand why you insist on wallowing in such iniquity. Anyways, I'm sorry to keep you waiting Dean. This is my friend Balthazar."

"Nice to meet you," Dean tosses a nod in Balthazar's direction.

"Let me get on making that drink for you, Cas."

"Oh? What are you making 'Cas'?" Balthazar asks snarkily while air quoting around Castiel's nickname.

"A blood and sand."

Balthazar waves his hand dismissively. "Oh there is absolutely no reason to waste one of the few times I manage to drag his ass out on the town on a froufrou cocktail. The only reason why I come to this bar is that bottle right there."

Castiel follows Balthazar's point and squints at the whisky on the top shelf. "What is that?"

"That, my friend, is a bottle of Aberlour A'bunadh. It has a sweet caramel-tasting nose with subtle undertones of toffee and pear. Pretty good cut with water, but I prefer it neat. We'll take two glasses, barkeep."

And because Castiel's a good friend, he makes appropriate nods and humming sounds of assent as Balthazar begins to regale him with tales of his newest lady friends and how incompetently all of the undergraduates in his section speak French. To be honest, Castiel might spend 99% of his energies watching Dean as he stretches up on his toes to grab the bottle off the top shelf. In his defense, he would have not been so distracted if the action hadn't raised Dean's shirt. It's hardly Castiel's fault that his eyes gravitate to the subtle groove at the dip of Dean's spine. Castiel shivers lightly as he imagines the broken sound that Dean would make as his tongue dips to trace the curve. 

By the time Dean returns with the bottle in hand to pour them drinks, Castiel has schooled his features and returned his gaze to Balthazar. Thankfully, Balthazar has kept himself busy by talking with great animation and hasn't seemed to notice Castiel's wandering attentions.

As they continue to talk, Balthazar periodically gestures for Dean to refill their glasses. It's a bit hazy to Castiel how Balthazar manages to convince him to have what might be the fifth drink in a row or it could easily be number six. He doesn't notice his tipsiness at first, swept up in Balthazar's enthusiasm and iron liver. 

Catching the eye of an attractive patron across the way, Balthazar smiles cocksure at Castiel before excusing himself and gracefully weaving through the crowd to approach her. The second Balthazar leaves, however, Castiel finds himself realizing how difficult it has become for him to focus his eyes as he tracks Dean bustling behind the counter.

As if sensing Castiel's gaze, Dean looks up from the colorful fruity drink he's making and smiles kindly at Castiel. Returning to face the girl who had ordered the drink, Dean cranks up the wattage on his smile a little more. He leans over while handing the drink to the girl and laughs in response as she whispers something flirtily in his ear.

Castiel watchs the two with an ugly wrench of envy as he drags on the dredges of his drink. He tries to find Balthazar's blonde hair in the crowd (when did that happen? It hadn't been this busy when they had come in), but it rapidly proves too much effort. He spins back on the stool to face the bar again and slumps slightly in his seat.

"Why the long face, Cas?"

"Oh. Just tired, I guess."

"Well that's no good. It's only a little past midnight."

"I'm just not used to coming out, and if I had known that Balthazar was just going to leave... Well, I'm beginning to wonder why I even bothered to drive out here."

Dean winces sympathetically. "Sorry to hear that, Cas. Let me get you a new drink. I never got a chance to pay you back for introducing me to that pie place. I think I'm still lusting after those pies."

Laughing wholeheartedly, Castiel eyes Dean fondly. "You do realize we split three slices, and then you walked out with two pies right?"

"Math has no business when it comes to pie. The answer is always more. There was apple pie. And blueberry pie. But I didn't get a chance to get the peach pie. Or perhaps two apples pies."

"Well it is one of my favorite places. We'll definitely go again Dean." The second the words leave his mouth, Castiel feels as if they had tumbled out heavy, awkward, unbidden, and altogether too forward. 

He covers the blush creeping across his face by ducking his head and clearing his throat. Cas keeps his gaze down, looking at the marks worn into the wood of the bar as he says, "So uh, I'd love to try that drink you mentioned before to me."

"Are you sure you don't want more of that fancy whisky?"

"Yes," Castiel looks up to smiles warmly at Dean, "Always trust my bartender right?"

As Dean moves off to pour his drink, three giggly, very obviously inebriated girls who crowded around the bar intercept him. "Excuse us?"

"Yes ladies, what can I do for you?"

"Two things: we'd like more tequila shots, and my friend thinks you're very cute."

Dean chuckles and scratches at his right shoulder in a manner Castiel has begun to recognize as a familiar gesture of embarassment. "Does she now? Well, I'd certainly love to get you guys those tequila shots to start."

As he winks at the girls, Castiel suppresses the clench of jealousy that resurfaces in his stoamch. Dean grabs a Collins glass from the bar, tosses it behind his back and catches it over his shoulder (to the pleased laughter of the girls). He adds ice to the cocktail shaker and pours in Scotch whisky, vermouth, cherry brandy, and orange juice. With practiced flicks of his wrist, he shakes the mixture before straining it into the Collins glass. Topping it with a splash of orange juice, he reaches over the counter to grab a straw with his other hand. Dean dips it into the drink and presses his thumb against the edge of the straw, stopping a thimble of liquid inside. Castiel traces the movement of the straw into Dean's mouth as he tastes the drink and deems it satisfactory with a smile before walking back to Cas.

As Dean leans forward to pass him the drink, Castiel unconsciously mirrors Dean's movements and bends towards Dean as well. Dean mumbles a quick apology about how busy it is tonight with his breath ghosting across the sensitive skin of Castiel's ear.

When Castiel's brain decides to stop short-circuiting and parse what Dean had said, Dean has already ghosted away to pick up the handle of tequila. He's pouring a row of shots for the girls. He doles out three lime slices and slides over the saltshaker. For the second round of shots, when the girls insist that he take a shot with them, he smiled and shrugs his shoulders in a helpless gesture as he agrees. They cry loudly for him to do the rock salt chaser off one of the girls' wrists. Dean throws up both hands in protest and shakes his head. They loudly protest that today is Cindy's birthday and place another $20 on the bar. Dean rolls his eyes at Cas briefly, and then he leans over. Castiel watches as Dean's tongue darts out to lap quickly at her wrist and feels his own eyes darken in response.

Castiel turns away, unable to watch them continue to flirt. He tugs his phone out of his pocket and opens his book app. Well, if he couldn't read at home in the comfort of his armchair, he supposes that he can read in the bar. The storm cloud gracing his face eases slightly as he settles back into his story like wrapping himself up in a warm coat. Castiel's hand lifts his glass for him to sip absentmindedly at his drink periodically.

Every once in a while, his ears pick up Dean's low chuckle. He looks up to see his fond smile and Dean sliding a new drink across the bar at him before he even realizes that he had finished his last one.

So when the lights turn on and flood the establishment with harsh glare, Castiel looks up with surprise. His eyes flick up to the top of the display to see the numbers 2:05 glowing back at him. Huh. How did that happen?

"Hey Cas. We're about to close up for the night."

"Oh I'm sorry. I just got caught up in my book and didn't notice."

"It's no problem. I don't mind if you linger a bit while I clean up. It's just everyone else that has to get out and close up."

"Yes, of course. Let me pay you," Castiel reachs to grab his wallet from his back right pocket.

"Oh no. Definitely not. You're a friend. And besides, I'm hoping for pumpkin lattes far beyond season."

"Well consider it done. Though I was thinking about debuting an apple spice latte..."

"What?" Dean fixes him with a hopeful look.

"Well, something along the line of applesauce and cinnamon."

"You're a genius. That definitely needs to be done."

"Well, I'll let you know when it's done then."

"So uh, where's your friend?"

With a curse, Castiel realizes that he hasn't seen Balthazar in hours. He looks around the bar in desperation and fails to find him in the few remaining patrons. Typing out a text with a frown on his face, he expresses his displeasure at being ditched.

He gets a quick reply: "Sorry 'Cas.' Left with the girl but consider this a favor anyways."

He shoots back a question mark in response, but his phone stubbornly remains silent.

"So?" Dean quirks an eyebrow at him from where he's unloading the dishwasher.

"Uh. He left."

Dean clucks his tongue in response, "Well, shit. That sucks. How are you getting home?"

Castiel stops to consider for a second. "Well, I might be able to drive, but it'd probably be best if I can try to find a hotel room."

"You are definitely not driving on my watch; I've plied you with far too much alcohol. I'm also not going to spend all night wondering if you're going to crash and burn or some random ax murderer is going to break into your hotel room and stab you to death."

"I hardly think there are murderers to worry about in this town."

"Hey, why don't you stay at my place. Let me be the first to tell you though, our couch really isn't all that comfy and we've only got one spare blanket. But it's home and I like it well enough."

"I'm sure I'll like it too, Dean. Thank you for the offer. Are you sure?"

"It'll be my preemptive thanks for that apple spice latte. Just give me another fifteen minutes to finish cleaning up here. Why don't you tell me about that book while I clean up?"

==

"So this is it. Not much to look at. It's normally neater because Sammy has a stick up his ass about leftover pizza boxes, but he's got finals right now, so he's really just hiding out in the library."

"Oh that's no problem. My own home can get pretty messy. It looks very nice and lived in. And the couch doesn't look uncomfortable at all. Thank you again so much for letting me stay. I really appreciate it," Castiel stops. Since when was he a babbler? He frowns slightly.

"Alright. Well, brief tour," Dean points down the hall at rooms, "First door on the left is me. Second door on the left is a closet. Door at the end of the hall is the bathroom. Door on the right is Sammy's. Judging from how it's closed, he's probably asleep. Which is exactly what I wish to be. I'm completely bushed from work. Friday's are always crazy. Let me get you a blanket."

They walk quietly down the hallway to the closet. Dean pulls off the spare blanket and loads it into Castiel's waiting arms. "Let me get you a pillow too. Hold on one sec."

He opens the door to his room, and Castiel catches a quick glimpse of a guitar propped up by the side of the wall and a mess of plaid shirts loitering the ground. Dean returns with the pillow and plops it into Cas' waiting arms. "Here you go. All set?"

"Yeah. This is perfect."

"See you in the morning then. If you need a glass of water or whatever from the kitchen, help yourself. Don't touch my pie though; I can't be held responsible for any bodily harm that I inflict. Them's the rules of this house."

"Got it."

Dean smiles and breaks out into a huge yawn, "Alright. Going to get ready for the bed."

Dean closes the door behind him with a quiet schnick.

Castiel carries his load back to the couch and settles the pillow at the far end. He gets up to close the window and finds it jammed. He's just pushing tentatively at the window frame as he hears someone walking up behind him.

Clad in boxers and brushing his teeth, Dean mumbles to Cas around a mouthful of toothpaste, "Hey, sorry, it gets stuck. But Sammy and I prefer it colder anyways."

Castiel's face folded in concentration as he tries to understand what Dean had just said to him. When he thinks he's parsed the words, he responds, "Oh. It's no problem. I'll just wrap myself up a little tighter in the blanket."

"Mk. Well, sleep well man." 

Dean pads back on soft feet to the bathroom, and Castiel hears the telltale sound of gargling and spitting. As he folds himself up in the blanket and lays his head down on the pillow, he hears Dean's door close and a soft creak of bedsprings as Dean climbs into bed. Castiel's last thought before drifting off to sleep is of sharp hipbones diving under boxers decorated with little electric guitars.

He wakes up a short few hours later, feeling his breath frost in the cold apartment air. Okay, so maybe, Castiel is being overly dramatic with frosting breath, but he is definitely too cold to sleep. He quickly tries to remember if there's another spare blanket in the closet, but he's pretty positive that the sole blanket was all he had seen.

With a sigh, he heaves himself out of the couch and walks to the bookshelf. He uses his phone to illuminate the spines and grabs the third and fourth volume of the comic series that Dean had lent him. Since he's awake, he might as well read. He hopes that borrowing books without asking permission isn't too presumptuous as he climbs back onto the couch.

Tightly wrapping himself up in the blanket, he sneaks a hand out to turn on the lamp on the side table. About an hour later, he hears the sound of a door opening and looks up to meet confused eyes under a shaggy head of hair.

"Um. Hey."

"Hi. You must be Sammy, Dean's brother right? Sorry, he's letting me stay the night because my friend bailed."

"No problem. But just Sam though," he says as he sleepily rubs at one eye. He walks into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water.

"Got it. Nice to meet you Sam."

"What are you doing up anyways? It's way too early or late, depending on when you guys got in, I guess."

"Oh," Castiel frowns slightly as he debates whether the truth seems rude and ungrateful. "It's just...really cold, and I can't ever sleep when I'm cold."

"Oh sorry. We only have the one spare blanket. Hey, why don't you just climb into bed with Dean?"

Castiel blinks owlishly and tilts his head at Sam with confusion. Surely he misheard. "Sorry?"

"Yeah. You're so cold that you're wrapped on the couch like freaking ET."

"Sorry again. I don't get that reference."

"Really? ET? Phone home? Oh okay," Sam shakes his head a bit in disbelief, "Well, beyond the point. Anyways, Dean's like a freaking furnace, so you won't be cold in bed with him. Just one more thing, he prefers to be little spoon."

"Little spoon?"

"Yeah. Definitely. He's the first room on the left," Sam says, walking back to his room with his water glass and a grin on his face.

Castiel sits there for a few minutes. Well, if his own brother suggested it, Dean can't be too mad right? He certainly isn't going to get any sleep out here tonight, and Castiel is too exhausted to keep missing nights of sleep.

He glances quickly at the page he was on, memorizes the number, and returns the book to its shelf. Castiel walks to Dean's room and knocks softly on the door around an armful of blanket and pillow.

There's no response, so Castiel eases open the door quietly and closes it gently behind him. Dean's lying in bed starfished with one leg thrown out from under the covers.

"Hey Dean. I'm sorry, but I'm freezing and Sam said it'd be okay if I slept in here with you. As long as I let you 'little spoon.' Dean. Is that okay?"

Not getting a response, Castiel leans over to shake Dean's shoulder gently. His only response is a groan, and then Dean is rolling over on to his side to make room for Castiel. Castiel figures with his sleep addled mind that that's good enough and throws his blanket over on top of Dean's.

He slides in under the covers. Reminding himself about little spoons, Castiel wraps a tentative arm around Dean's torso, willing himself to not think about the sinful smoothness of Dean's skin. He feels rather than hears Dean's quiet hum of contentment as he curls his body back into Castiel's. As Castiel lets himself drift off to sleep for the second time that night, he hopes that this isn't a terrible idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the word count kind of ran away with me on this one. Thank you to my lovely beta, arora_kayd, for helping me plan out this chapter.
> 
> The drink that Dean makes Castiel is one of my favorites served at a little bar called Alembic in San Francisco. Here's their description: "A classic story of love, desire, and tragic death gave this equally classic cocktail its moniker. scotch whiskey, cherry brandy, sweet vermouth and fresh orange juice served ice cold and up. alluring as rita hayworth, but this femme fatale kicks like a bull. toro" Couldn't resist the urge to do the non-standard serve in a Collins glass rather than a cocktail glass. (If you'd like to make it yourself, it's 1 oz blended scotch, 1 oz blood orange juice, ¾ oz sweet vermouth, ¾ oz Cherry Heering. Stirred and served cold.)
> 
> See you next Tue for the next installment. :)


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel wakes with a sense of warmth pervading his very being. Cracking open his eyes, he sleepily watches the dust motes dancing in the rays of sunlight shining through the window slats. He wracks his brain. When was the last time that he woke up to such brilliant light so late in the day? He moves to check the time on his watch and finds himself unable to lift his left arm. Castiel turns his head to the side to see Dean pressed against his side with an arm looped around his.

He's unable to stop the soft smile spreading across his features as he watches how Dean's chest softly rises and falls with his breath. The tussle of his short hair frames his face in repose against the soft blue of his pillow. Smoothed away by sleep, the little worry lines that crinkled Dean's face in consciousness between his brows are gone. Castiel resists the urge to reach a hand out and stroke the soft curve of his cheekbone.

Dean shifts slightly and snuggles closer, throwing a leg up and over Castiel. The movement tangles the two of them further, and a contented, bone-deep lethargy drifts over Castiel. He rests his forehead gently against Dean's as he lets his eyes drift shut again.

The next time he wakes, it's to a sudden jerk. Castiel's eyes fly open to face a confused and guarded look on Dean's face. 

"Um. Cas. What the hell are we doing in bed together? I know I wasn't drunk last night."

"Oh. Sam found me freezing on the couch and told me I should just climb into bed with you as long as I made sure to little spoon you."

"Little spoon. Goddamn it, Sammy. Really?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Was that...not ok?" Castiel anxiously peers at Dean during the long silence that follows. As Dean slowly lets some of the tension sink out of his body, the air around them incrementally relaxes.

"It's just...unexpected. It's alright with me, I guess. Wouldn't want you to freeze to death. But geez Cas, warn a guy before you spoon him, would ya?"

"I will be sure to next time Dean."

Shaking his head, Dean regards Cas with a look of great contemplation. Then, Dean's face breaks out in a suggestive grin, and he waggles his eyebrows. "So. Since we're in bed already, you wanna?"

With that comment, Cas' stomach plummets and his breath knocks out of his lungs all at once. He stares at Dean incredulously as he corrals what air he has left to gasp out, "Yes."

And then it's as if they have flung themselves off a cliff with reckless abandon.

Dean surges forward to wrap his hand in Cas' hair as he brings their lips together in a punishing kiss. Cas' eyes fall close as Dean bites and pulls Cas' lower lip into his mouth. As Dean lets Cas' lip slip back out, he presses a gentle kiss to Cas' mouth and then licks fiercely into his mouth, mapping out the intricacies of Cas' hard palate. Cas opens his mouth in soft, wet pants from the combination of soft and hard gestures.

He presses his fingers into the soft cradle behind Dean's jawline and relishes the broken moan that slips unbidden out of Dean's mouth. Cas trails kisses down Dean's neck, hot wet slides of his tongue that dip further, until he's sucking ardently on the delicate sweep of a collarbone.

He rolls them over so that his knees bracket Dean's hips as they stutter forward involuntarily from the contact. Dean's hands surge up to grasp at Cas' back, tugging him back down to meet his hungry mouth. As Cas falls forward, trapped by heady kisses, Dean's growing erection presses urgently against the pane of his stomach. Cas drifts his right hand down the valleys and grooves of Dean's bicep, skips it over the line of his brachioradialis, sweeps along the curvature of his wrist, and grasps firmly at Dean's splayed fingers that tighten in response.

Castiel trembles at the taste of Dean in his mouth and a low moan escapes from his mouth only to be caught between their lips. His shirt has rucked up around his abdomen from their rocking, and Dean tangles his free hand in the hem of Cas' shirt, eager to have it all the way off. Letting out of a huff of frustration as he fails to work it free, Dean growls, "A little help here Cas."

Cas breaks away to sit up on Dean's lap, giving a soft twist with his hips as he drags the shirt torturously over his head. He feels Dean's hands splay across his abdomen, ghosting over his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake, as they drift upward following the path of his shirt to his face. With a groan, Cas leans down to breathe hotly with arms bastioned on either side of Dean as he brings his rapidly swelling member to grind against Dean's in a stuttering rhythm.

With a soft hiss of pleasure-pain, Dean reaches between them and protests, "Cas. You still have your jeans on."

Dean's fingers nimbly sneak between their bodies to splay open the vee of his pants and push his boxers down. Cas feels the pleasurable smack of his cock against his stomach, fat and straining as it's freed from its denim prison. He falls forward on one forearm as he reaches a hand down into Dean's boxers to wrap around his member. Watching the other man's head fall back with a guttural moan, he slicks his hand with the precome leaking steadily from the tip before stroking down the shaft.

He is mesmerized by the soft sheen of sweat that begins to collect on Dean's golden skin, the pattern of freckles dancing across his vision. When he lifts his gaze to meet Dean's, the sight of Dean biting his own lip with pupils blown black in lust almost makes him weep. Dean's throat rasps cutoff sounds as he tries to change the slow and punishingly slow pace that Castiel has set. He tries to thrust up into the shell of Cas' hand but the weight of Cas on his hips holds him down.

A choked sound escapes Dean followed by broken whispers of words, "Cas. I need. IneedIneedneedneed."

With a self-satisfied grin, Cas obliges and speeds up his pace, twisting over the head every few upstrokes before rucking his hand downward. He draws his fingers lower to curl around Dean's balls, his knuckles pressing lighting into the space behind. In response, blunt fingernails scrape angry red furrows in their wake as Dean drags his hand down to clasp at Cas' ass.

Cas relishes the dirty-wet sound echoing between them from kisses made sloppy with lust as they fuck into each other's mouths. The raw scent of their precome mingling in the air and the harsh too-loud sound of their breathing jars Cas to his very core. A wanton animal sound slips from his own mouth as he extends his hand to wrap around both of them. He buckles forward, falling with his weight completely onto Dean who shivers like a leaf in a harsh autumn gale.

He can feel the pressure building to a blinding white as his hips roll across Dean's in abandon. All sense of rhythm begins to abandon him and all he can do is pant hotly with his head turned to face the shell of Dean's ear. His hair sticks to the back of his head, damp with perspiration. 

Dean coos soft words of encouragement as his hands clench and unclench in the muscles of Cas' ass, "Yes, baby. Just like that. Oh god yes." 

When he comes, he crushes his mouth to Dean's as he lets out a desperate keening cry. Dean brings a hand to rest on the winged crest of his scapula and wraps the other around himself. His hand is quickly coated with slick strands of pulsing heat, and he pulls himself to completion with a few rapid strokes. Dean comes with his mouth fallen open in a silent sound, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

The two of them lie spent, sucking air into their spent lungs with greedy gasps. Their heartbeats loudly echo one another as they spiral into a slower cadence, the sweat sheen starting to cool off their bodies.

With a wry grin, Dean looks up at Cas before saying, "Well. That was an unexpected start to my morning. Might have to make a habit of that."

Cas only makes a feeble groan in response, burying his head into the crook of Dean's neck.

Dean shakes Cas off and says, "C'mon. Up. Let's go shower. We're a mess, and I'm starving. There's this place around the corner that has awesome breakfast burritos."

===

When Castiel finally leaves Dean's later that afternoon, he is terrified that this is some weird one time fluke. Dean's awkward farewell does nothing to ease his concerns. He drops Castiel off at the parking lot of the bar after they get breakfast. They stare at each other in the front seat of the Impala; silence curling around the air between them so thick that Cas swears he can feel it gain corporeal form. 

Cas already recognizes the flutter in his chest as the uncoiling of feelings for Dean. Dean swallows and gruffly says, "Better be on your way. I'm sure you've got lots to do."

Castiel nods mutely and his fingers curl around the door handle, unwilling to pop open the door and leave just yet.

"Aight Cas. I'll see you around okay?" Dean prompts.

The door swings open, betrayed by the twitch of his fingers, and Cas steps numbly out. All he can hear is the blood rushing in his head, that they need to stop and talk about this, what this is, and that Dean is not ready to talk about anything, not by a long shot. What comes tumbling out of his mouth instead is, "Bye Dean."

Cas' hand falters as he shuts the door, and it fails to close all the way. Dean swings an arm as he leans over the passenger seat to quickly reopen and close the door. As he straightens, he waves to Cas with a quirk of his lips and drives out of the lot.

Cas watches him leave and stands in the parking lot for a few moments before walking to his car. The soft beep of the unlocking mechanism greets his ears, and he opens the door and slides in. He's so caught up in his worries, he's halfway back to Berkeley before he realizes that they didn't even exchange numbers.

===

Over the weekend, Castiel's managed to work himself into a terrible sort of headspace. He kicks himself for ever having met Dean, for having decided to climb into bed with him, for not being able to separate sex from the unsettling curl of affection that his heart wants to sing with. He throws himself into his work, fingers angrily typing out words. Castiel pushes himself harder in his morning jogs until his muscles ache and tremble with fatigue when he pauses to catch his breath, palm pressed into a telephone pole for support.

Wednesday finds Cas sitting forlornly at the counter of the Eastern Side. The last thing Cas expects is for Dean to walk through the door. His head jerks up at the familiar sound of Dean's greeting and the hopeful, dumb smile that steals across his features would have done any lovelorn teenager proud.

Dean answers with a soft smile. He says, "Sammy is going to be here every Wednesday for research. Figured my favorite cafe was the best way to pass the time."

"Yeah sure. Let me make you a drink," Castiel hopes that his voice is more confident than it sounds to him.

They get through his shift, talking and trading jokes in an almost measured manner before Dean pushes off the counter. "Alright, Sammy's done. See you next week."

Cas waves bye, convinced that he's not actually going to see Dean again. That he doesn't deserve this bit of brightness in his life because he's not what Dean wants, what he needs.

So when Dean shows up next week as promised, Cas allows the faint prickling of hope to wash over him. The eddies swirl into a mighty whirlpool when Dean shyly ducks his head and asks if he'd like to grab dinner after his shift with him and Sammy.

It feels so natural to be sitting in the small diner booth, trading favorite authors with Sam as Dean sneaks fries off Cas' plate. When the boys drop him off at his apartment, Dean rests his hand against Cas' arm as if in an unspoken apology, and Sam makes him promise that they'll do dinner again at the diner next week.

The following week while they're waiting for a table and slumming around outside, they watch the falling sun paint the sky fiery streaks of red. A man walks by with a bull terrier, and Dean grins and turns towards Cas.

"Good dags. D'ya like dags?"

Cas stares back blankly as Sam responds, "Oh dogs. Sure, I like dags. I like caravans more."

"No? Nothing? Snatch? Guy Ritchie?"

Cas cocks his head to the side in confusion.

Dean shakes his head fondly, "Okay, you're coming by this Saturday to watch movies. No arguments."

When Cas shows up a few days later at Dean's apartment holding a cold six pack of beer and an apple pie (it seemed rude to show up empty handed), he's greeted by three DVDs that are thrust into his face. 

"Okay, Sammy said you've never seen ET either? How is that even possible? So I figured, ET, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Snatch. A weird mix for sure, but all solid."

"Sure. Sounds good. I trust you Dean."

Dean eyes Cas as if he senses the double meaning behind his words and beckons him inside. They sit on the couch with what feels like a yawning space between them. As the credits to ET roll, Dean stretches languorously before turning to Cas.

"I'm starving. How do you feel about grilled cheese?"

"Very positively. We can have the apple pie for dessert."

"Now you're singing my tune."

Cas turns so that his torso is resting against the arm of the sofa as he watches Dean move around the kitchen, throwing a sizzling pat of butter onto the pan. Cas tells him what he thinks about the movie as Dean makes their sandwiches. When Dean returns, it's with two plates: one holding grilled cheese sandwiches and the other a huge slice of pie with a fork.

Dean sits down right next to Cas, so in his space that their thighs touch and plops the plate of sandwiches right down into his lap. "Here. I'm starting with pie first. Then we can swap plates."

"Thanks."

Cas thoughtfully chews on his sandwich, cheese oozing out from between the bread and catches it with his tongue. Dean watches him and his eyes darken at the wet flick of Cas' tongue. He shakes himself as if waking for a stupor and reaches for the DVD remote and starts the second movie.

Somehow by the third, in the now dark of the living room, Dean is pressed hotly against Cas' mouth, and their tongues are locked in a complicated dance. As they get increasingly worked up, Dean has started lazily thrusting his hips against Cas. His hands have worked their way under Cas' shirt to tweak at nipples, and Cas' head hangs limply over the sofa arm as he gives in to the tidal wave of Dean's ministrations.

At the sound of a particularly heady keen, Dean's head snaps up and his hands steal back out to pull urgently at Cas' hands. He growls, "Bedroom. Now."

And they are up, moving as if trying to forge their bodies into a single clumsy beast as they stumble towards the bedrooms. Stopping to press into the wall of the hallway, fumbling out to reach a doorknob that isn't quite there yet, tripping awkwardly to fall into the bed. The next hour is lost in a haze of glorious lust, and this somehow becomes a habit. Dinners on Wednesdays and movies and sex on Saturdays.

Some Sunday mornings Castiel wakes to fingers lazily carding through his hair, and he smiles and leans into the touch. Other mornings, he finds his cheek pressed against the firm wall of Dean's back as it radiates heat and suffuses his very being with warmth. 

He learns to map the unsteady truce of not talking about what is happening between them as surely as he learns the intimate secrets of Dean's body. He strokes and kisses over all the planes of Dean's chest, learns which touches Dean presses urgently into and which he shies away from. Cas mouth grows wet with dark lust at the press of Dean's cock against his mouth right before he pushes in past his lips. Cas has heard the sound that Dean makes as he comes, never a loud groan but a soft moan that sighs out of his body, that he can conjure it in his mind at will.

He knows that raking his fingernails up Dean's sides as they kiss hotly can have him writhing in a matter of seconds. There's a spot on the inside of his right knee that he loves to have sucked into the heat of Cas' mouth and worried until tens of little capillaries burst and leave a mottled bruise.

Dean enjoys the relentless press of fingers into his mouth while Cas bites and teases at a nipple. He sucks at them wetly and groans around them, the vibration traveling directly to Cas' own cock that swells in response. He feels rather than hears Dean's dissent when he circles a tentative finger around his puckered opening. Dean's entire body tenses as if a string about to snap on a violin, and it only takes a quick upward glance into Dean's face to tell that this is unwanted. He croons soft words of comfort into Dean's ears as his hands smooth lightly down Dean's sides, as if he's convincing a hawk perched on a high pine bough to not take flight.

That's okay. Cas doesn't need that. Truly. Cas is content with lazy mornings spent sloppily making out in bed, limbs haplessly wrapped around each other and entangled in the sheets. He just can't seem to shake the fear that has established residence in the pit of his stomach. They've never once talked about what's happening between them, and Cas waits in fear for the storm to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slightly early post this week b/c i've got forever class tomorrow. see you next tue for ch5 :) thanks for reading <3\. Thank you to my lovely beta, arora_kayd, for helping me with my prepositional disasters. xxoo
> 
> ==  
> Also sorry, really busy w school this week. Will try to have next ch by Tue but big test on Mon, so it might be late. Heads up.


	5. Chapter 5

The drab foggy chill of a Berkeley spring. Cas can feel it - the damp seeping in through the windows, settling into his bones, casting a faint disquiet in its wake. The trees lay bare, branches thrust against the sky, waiting for spring to come around the corner before bursting into resplendence and color and foliage. This has always been Cas' least favorite time of year. It is made infinitely worse this year by the clench in his stomach that knots further, convoluting with each passing day. Every time he glances at the calendar or someone mentions the day of the week, he can't help his reflexive wince and shudder.

On March 4th, Cas is taking his oral exams. If he doesn't pass, he gets only one more shot. If he horrifyingly manages to bungle both attempts, Berkeley will essentially kick him out of his PhD program with a Master's degree. He'd be kissing away three years of grueling courses and research, leading undergraduate discussion sections, and sucking up to his professor. And flushing away his lifelong dreams of being a tenured academic scholar.

That's not an option. He shakes his head resolutely. Slowly, Cas proceeds to pare things away from his life like a gardener snipping off wilted leaves. First to go are his hours at the cafe - Anna understands, bless her heart. She tells him with a sad smile that she and the other regulars will miss him but for him to come back as soon as he has time again. He's welcome on her payroll any day.

Second to go, his morning jogs. He had tried to justify them by running through defenses and arguments in his head while winding his way along dimly lit roads in the early morning hours. However, that proved to fail on both accounts. Jogging has always been a meditation, a reprieve from thinking. By attempting to do both, Cas found himself unable to come up with any novel ideas for his orals, and he didn't enjoy his jogs anymore.

As the date creeps closer, Cas is glad that he had talked with his PI about which faculty members to petition to be on his committee. He's carefully researched all of them, seen what they themselves study, and what type of questions that they're likely to ask him. He's had time to read track down their dissertations and at least skim through them, getting a flavor for the way that they each like to assert claims.

When he stumbles home into the chaos of his apartment, it seems that he has emptied the whole of the Moffitt Library philosophy section into his living room. The books aren't quite strewn across his floor, but they are just short of that. They sit perched in vaguely strategic piles, sorted approximately by topic, subject, time period, but more often than not, which was the last one that he read.

So when he completely forgets Valentine's Day, he almost feels like he shouldn't be to blame. Dean hadn't made it sound like it was important. Just sent him a casual text at the beginning of the week. "What are you up to on Thur?"

He had been surprised. Thursday isn't a day that they usually see each other. He replies, "Just studying. Why?"

"Let's do dinner. I'll come to yours and cook."

"Sounds great. See you then."

The days flip by in a haze of caffeine and reading. On Thursday, as Cas trudges home after a long day at the library, he's exhausted. Fatigue pervades down to the very core of his being. There's nothing he'd like more than to just climb into bed and sleep for a thousand years. Flipping open his mailbox, he sees a hastily scrawled note.

"Hey asshole. You weren't answering your phone. Waited outside like a creeper for an hour. Thanks a lot for a great time. I'm going home."

He feels his throat tighten as he fumbles in his pocket for his cell phone. He inspects the screen as he pulls it out. Four voicemails. The main stacks are located deep underground - as if within the belly of some mythical serpentine beast. There's never any reception.

Dialing in his passcode with a heavy heart, he puts the phone next to his ear and listens. By the fourth message, Dean has moved from angry to furious. Cas massages at his temple, willing his headache and tiredness to go away, as he goes to call Dean back.

"Yeah asshole?" Dean snaps into the phone.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I got caught up in reading at the library," Cas starts.

"No. Go fuck yourself. I drove all the way out to make sure that your scrawny ass is getting fed properly. And I just wanted to spend some time with you. You're so damn distant these days." Dean's voice is a wall of barely controlled rage.

"Look. I'm sorry Dean. I'm just busy and stressed out," Cas tries again.

"No. You're not so busy that you can't fucking eat dinner," Dean cuts Cas off, "I didn't ask you to come to me. Sammy didn't have to do research. I drove my baby all the way to Berkeley just for you, and I wait on your doorstep for a fucking hour. How do you think that makes me feel? Like a fucking chump is what. So you know what, you're an asshole. Don't fucking apologize to me. Fuck off."

Cas feels the cluster headache that has been looming all day explode in a brilliance of pain from behind his right eye. What little patience he has left evaporates. He jerks his door open and slams it behind him as he begins to yell into the phone. 

"You know what, you can go fuck off Dean. You were the one who wanted to come over. I didn't ask for you to come and cook for me. I'm so tired that I'm half-expecting to loop around to not tired any moment now. This research is killing me. It feels like hellhounds are circling at my door, howling and thirsting for my blood. I am literally reading all of the time, and you know that. You know that I'm busy. So I'm sorry that I forgot to come home early to an event that you imposed on me. My degree is on the line here, in case you forgot."

A stunned silence follows, and he hears Dean breathe in as if he's about to respond on three occasions before he actually says anything. 

"Oh, in case I forgot, because I'm stupid? Because I'm not getting some fancy degree like you are? Like Sam is? Glad to know that you think that I'm beneath you."

Cas grinds his teeth in frustration. "That's not what I meant. Look," Cas sighs loudly into the phone and marshals the dredges of calm that remain, "We're both tired. I knew you worked a late shift last night since it was Tuesday. So let's just table this and talk tomorrow. Please?"

His only response is silence. Prying the phone from his ear, he looks down to see that the call has been ended. He's unsure of when Dean hung up, if he had even heard his attempt at making peace. 

With a groan, Cas flips open the coverlet on his bed. He grabs the bottle of Imitrex from his nightstand and shakes two pills into his hand. Tossing them down his throat, he groans and massages futilely at his temples. Not bothering or willing to do more than kick off his loafers, he crawls into bed and drags the pillow over his head. His last thought as he drifts off to bed is that February is terrible terrible terrible.

When he wakes up, the events of last night unfurl in his mind. Panic swamps his system, flooding his system with glucocorticoids. He feels his heart rate speed up and his palms grow clammy as he digs through his blankets for his phone. He texts Dean, "Hey. Can we talk? I'm sorry about last night."

There's no response until around 3pm and it's a curt "No."

"Please. I know that I've been busy. Orals are incredibly difficult to study for, and I need to pass. This is really important to me, but that doesn't mean that you aren't as well." His finger hovers over the send button. 

Surely Dean doesn't want to make an attempt to classify this thing that they are. Especially not when he's still angry. He deletes the last phrase, changing it to "This is really important to me; I hope you can understand."

His phone is silent for an excruciating five minutes that tick by with the unthinking cruelty of glaciers, moving with the luxury of centuries of time at their disposal. 

His phone pings with a text. "Yeah, I understand."

He feels the tension drain out of his body. Thank God. Dean understands. Now he can get back to studying. There's only two weeks of this hell left. He just has to soldier through this, and then he can make it up to Dean. Maybe he'll head over, convince Sam to let him into the apartment, and turn the tables around and make dinner for Dean. A faint whistle lingers on his lips as he plucks the book from the top of the stack.

The rest of Friday goes by in a blur of prepping, and it's Saturday before he realizes it. Breaking the tradition of movie night for the first time in two months feels unnatural. He toys with the thought of texting Dean but figures it's pointless - he doesn't have time to go over right now anyways. Besides, Dean had said that he understood that Cas was busy. No problem, right?

In retrospect, he wonders at how he could have been so wrong about the entire affair. It only goes downhill from there. 

The day of his orals, he is shuffling in front of the lecture hall and wringing his tie in nervousness. As soon as he steps in front of the committee members, his anxiety fades into a dim roar. All of the studying he has done kicks in, and words pour smoothly from his lips. He leaves feeling like he had done well or, at the very least, he certainly passed. Cas can't wait to share the good news with Dean. 

He reaches into his pocket the second he walks outside and fidgets like an excited child while he waits for Dean to pick up. He doesn't.

Cas stares at his phone in confusion. He could have sworn that it was Dean's day off. Well, no big deal. He heads home and hops in the shower, washing away all of his stress and grime.

Opening his fridge, he squints at the paltry contents. He throws together a quick pasta and tries calling Dean again while he's cooking. No answer again.

Frowning at his phone as if it's personally responsible, Cas drills his fingers against the counter. Surely...Dean isn't still mad? Thinking back through the last two weeks, he realizes that he hasn't heard from Dean this whole time. Complete and utter radio silence and he hadn't realized a thing. He feels his heart jump up in his chest and his throat getting tight. He scrolls through his phone for Sam's number and pushes call.

On the third ring, Sam picks up. "Hey Cas, quals were today right?"

"Hello Sam. Yes they were."

"Hope you did well."

"Yes. I think that I passed."

Silence lingers awkwardly between the two of them before Sam clears his throat, "Hey no offense man, but why are you calling me?"

"Well, I was hoping that you'd be with Dean. I tried calling him earlier."

"No, I'm on campus. Dean is home. It's his day off," Sam replies, "Did he not pick up?"

"Er. No. Maybe he was in the shower?" Cas asks, knowing in his heart the untruth of that hope.

"Yeah, um. So, it's not really my place to say anything, but he's really upset about you forgetting Valentine's Day. He won't say anything, of course, but man, he's been stewing in the world's most epic bitchface for the last two weeks."

"Valentine's Day?"

"Yeah. You know. February 14th..." Sam starts.

Cas remains silent on the other end of the line. Sam offers, "Y'know, the day for couples. Hallmark has stuff plastered everywhere. Did you seriously not realize? How did you miss the explosion of pastel pink hearts?"

"Couples?" Cas finally echoed.

"Uh yeah. You know, boyfriend-girlfriend. Or I guess, boyfriend-boyfriend in your case. Or girlfriend-girlfiend too."

Cas swallows hard and whispers into the phone, "Boyfriend?"

"Oh man. You two are unbelievable. You're about as emotionally stunted as Dean. Yes. That's what you call someone you see multiple times a week and, as much as I'd like to not think about this, sleep with..."

Cas frantically scrolls through the events of the last few months in his head. He had hoped for something more with Dean but was convinced that he wasn't interested. Did they just slip comfortably into a relationship without him noticing? And how could he have missed Valentine's Day? No wonder Dean was so mad...

"Er, Cas?" Sam says, interrupting Cas' panicked thoughts, "I, uh, gotta go. My study group is meeting right now."

"Oh okay. Well thank you for your help."

"Please promise me, you'll call him and talk to him?" Sam asks before he hangs up.

Closing his phone, Cas sits down heavily on his couch. He drops his head into his hands and thinks. How was he going to make it up to Dean? Sam's idea isn't exactly going to work. Dean isn't picking up his calls, much less giving him a chance to explain himself. 

He turns over several ideas in his head, dismissing them each in turn as inadequate. When all of a sudden, like a bolt of thunder, it comes to him. Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I promise next ch will be happier.


	6. Chapter 6

Afternoon finds Castiel driving through town. He makes multiple stops along his way to Palo Alto, getting out and buying various items at several locations. The whole time, he hopes that his gesture will be enough to win Dean over and earn his forgiveness.

He pulls into the lot of the Roadhouse and spies Dean's Chevy Impala sitting in its usual spot by the magnolia tree. Cas parks near Dean's car and glances nervously at the door of the bar before he starts unloading his trunk. He pulls out two large buckets and begins to empty the water jug into the buckets. He pulls out a soft brush and some car wash soap that he pours into one of the water bucket. Walking over to Dean's car, he begins by meticulously scrubbing clean the car wheels. Then, he begins to rinse down the car, starting at the roof and slowly working his way down. He puts on a wash mitt and dips it in the soapy water, washing a small section of the car before rinsing it in the clean bucket and starting anew.

The process is meditative and relaxing. Cas loosens off residual grime and soaps the car down with fresh water, watching the rivulets stream down the side of the car. A few patrons look at him oddly while they walk pass but none make any moves to confront him or ask him what he's doing.

He dries the car off with a microfiber tool, empties the buckets of soapy water near the bushes, and retrieves the car wax from the car. He globs a small amount onto his mitt and starts to slowly wax the car. Cas doesn't stop till the car is gleaming. The final rays of daylight filter through the leaves, and Cas looks down at his watch to see that it's 8pm. That means that Dean still has 5 hours left to his shift.

Cas goes to his car and writes a note: "Dean - I'm sorry about the miscommunication. I'm sorry that I've been self-centered; I was very concerned about my qualifiers because they could determine my academic future. However, I should have communicated to you that you are also incredibly important to me. I hope this can begin to make up for my mistake. Please meet me at our booth at the Peninsula Fountain & Grill tomorrow at noon."

He takes one last look at the entrance to the bar, debating on whether to push through double doors that have never looked this intimidating before. With a shake of his head, Cas decides that it will be easier if Dean decides to come to him on his own initiative instead of what Dean could view as an ambush at work. He climbs in his car and drives back to Berkeley to a very fitful night of sleep.

\--

The next morning, he jolts awake out of bed in a cold sweat. What if Dean didn't realize the effort he made in cleaning the car? Why didn't he say anything more explicitly? Even worse, what if Dean was mad at Cas for touching his car? Or if Dean didn't even see the note? Or if Dean couldn't be bothered to meet with him no matter what?

Time creeps by with intolerable cruelty - at ten, Cas decides to just hit the road and get to the diner early. What if there was a sudden rush and then they couldn't even get a table? Cas makes the trek back to Palo Alto for the second time in two days. He forces himself to drive around town to kill some time but still finds himself in front of the diner around eleven. Cas pulls his car off onto a side street so that he doesn't have to deal with the two hour maximum restriction of the parking meters. He's so busy looking for a spot to pull into that he almost misses it. 

When his brain clicks and he realizes what he's seen, he does a double take to verify Dean's car in his rearview mirror. What is he doing here so early? He glances quickly down at his watch - 11:05. Surely Dean isn't as nervous as he is? He must be here early running errands. He finds a spot on the next block and waves the impatient person behind him around before he begins to turn his wheel to park.

Getting out of his car, he nervously glances at himself in the side mirror and fusses with his hair. Does it always look this disarrayed? He frowns with irritation and tries to no avail to straighten it. Giving up, he turns around to head to the diner.

It's 11:15, and the restaurant is fairly empty. There are a few couples eating on two-tops, a couple of business groups at larger booths in the back, and a very familiar side profile leaning against the bar and drinking a chocolate milkshake. 

He waves the maitre'd aside and tells her, "Oh my party is already here," as he walks towards Dean.

Cas comes to a sudden halt a few inches behind Dean, hand stretched out to touch him on the shoulder. He pulls his arm back to dangle by his side and clears his throat, "Hello Dean."

Dean turns to face him, and Cas is startled by the dark rings under his eyes. "Hey Cas," Dean responds with a facial expression that Cas can't quite read.

"Hello."

"Yes, we covered that part already. So you wanted to meet?"

"Uh yes," Cas scrambles for something to say, "Um, shall we get a table?"

"Sure."

The two of them approach the maitre'd, the distance between them oscillates like a sine function as they walk and try to map out the appropriate space for whatever their relationship stands as now.

They sit down to the table and bury themselves in the menu. The waitress comes by and Castiel peeks his head out long enough to ask for an iced tea with one wedge of lemon before disappearing behind the laminated pages again. He peeks over the top to find Dean looking expectantly at him, "So you invited me here to talk. So...talk."

Cas clears his throat anxiously before starting, "Well, I feel bad because I called Sam when you wouldn't call me back and he said that you were upset because I missed Valentine's Day. But I didn't mean to. I've always been bad at holidays. And I didn't even realize that was something we were supposed to celebrate. Not because you're not special to me. But because we never really defined what we were. But that doesn't meant that you're not incredibly important to me. When I first met you, I thought, I knew you were out there to myself. And I don't care if that sounds lame because that's how I felt. It was like there was this piece of me missing that I never even realized that was missing but when I met you, it just clicked perfectly into place. And I realized how much happier I was hanging out with you. And with Sam because spending time with your brother makes you so happy. Not that I don't like Sam anyways, but Sam is cool. But I don't like Sam in the same way that I like you.."

Dean holds his hands up with a wry grin, "Woah there Cas. I don't think I've ever heard so many words out of you at once. You don't want to break something."

And Cas feels relief flood through his system at Dean's joke. They spend the rest of lunch talking - it's still fairly awkward. However, the absence of three weeks of each other's company gives them plenty to catch up on. Cas fills Dean in on how grueling his quals were, the antics of some of the coffee shop regulars before he stopped working there, and the progress he's making on the new series of comics that he's reading (Fable) and how Dean needs to start reading it as well. In return, Dean tells Cas about drunken customer escapades, how Sam's been doing in his second year of school (only one more left after this he tells Cas with a proud grin), and oh by the way, thanks so much for the great job Cas did on waxing his baby.

As they're walking out of the restaurant, Dean leans over and gives Cas a quick peck on the lips. "Hey, I'd like to see you again sometime soon, but let's do it properly this time?"

Thankfully, Cas is adept enough to respond with, "Of course, I'll pick you up on Thursday and we'll go to dinner."

Dean smiles at Cas and that's all the answer he needs. They part with a friendly wave. The whole drive back, Cas is on cloud nine. He waits with bated breath for Thursday to come. He makes reservations at a nice steakhouse in the area - Dean is most definitely a carnivore. 

Dinner thankfully goes fantastically. They start off much more comfortably with each other than the lunch two days ago. Dean falls into friendly banter and teases Cas about his fastidiously neat eating. Cas retaliates in kind by pointing out Dean's plate where he's muddled the juices from the steak into the mashed potatoes and veggies jut out from the same potatoes in an unintentional imitation of a modern art sculpture. They order three desserts because Dean couldn't decide which he wanted more. Laughing at his love of sweets, Cas lets Dean steal the lion's share of the desserts.

Cas drives Dean back to his house and walks him to his apartment door. He hesitates on the threshold, debating on whether it would be too audacious to ask to be let in. Dean looks at him with eyes smoldering and pulls Cas in for a kiss. Cas surges forward to capture Dean's mouth with his and pushes him gently into the doorframe. They stay at relatively innocent kisses until Dean makes the next move.

His hands travel down from their original spot at the nape of Cas' neck to rest at the small of Cas' back only to trail further down to grab at his ass. Cas nudges his leg in-between Dean's legs and moves his kisses down the side of Dean's neck to suck at his clavicle. Dean leans his head back and lets out that tantalizing moan that has always driven Cas crazy. He looks up from his spot at Dean's neck and moves his head up to press insistent kisses against Dean's mouth again.

With a groan, Dean pushes Cas away. Startled, blue eyes meet green, and Cas practically whines out, "Why?"

"Not ready," Dean responds, and at Cas' plaintive look, amends, "...yet."

With a concerted effort, Cas pulls away further from Dean and attempts to compose himself. It is a tremendous effort of will - Dean's hair is slightly mussed from Cas' fingers raking through, the beginnings of a slight hickey are starting to blossom at the base of his neck, his pupils are blown, and he is breathing heavily from his arousal. Cas replies, "Okay. Whatever you need."

"Let's do a movie night next. But out this time? Have you heard of the new movie The World's End? Let's go see that. On me this time."

Cas nods in response, not trusting himself to talk without protesting.

Dean smiles weakly, "Well, I had a great night. Thanks Cas. Looking forward to seeing you again."

Cas just nods again, willing himself to keep his hope at bay instead of surging forward like an untamed stallion. If Dean needs them to take it slow to trust him again, then he has the mental reserve to do so. He just has to win Dean back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between chapters. Shortening the work by a few chapters so you'll be more likely to see the end. It's also a bit of a shorter chapter but I wanted to get it out to you guys instead of leaving you on that cliffhanger. I'm on my surgery rotation right now so it's pretty busy. Will try to have the next chapter out by the end of Sept at the latest. Thanks so much for everyone's continued support. I hope you're enjoying it so far.
> 
> (And make-up sex next chapter, promise!)


End file.
